The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  As my strength rallied and her visits passed each day, the struggle within my breast grew ever fiercer. I was well aware that Army regulations expressly forbade any form of intimate liaisons between its officers and those brave women who volunteered their time at the base hospitals. Nor was there any sign from her that she returned any of my interest as she briskly went about her business. I was simply another patient to her. Finally, however, my self-restraint abandoned me, not only due to her remarkable beauty, but also from my natural curiosity over her strange presence in exotic Peshawar. One day she spent additional time working upon my shoulder, where I had foolishly strained the wound while reaching for a novel, inducing a crimson patch to soak through the white linen compress. After days of responding to her in the most cold and distant tones that I could muster, so as not to betray my true emotions, I suddenly asked her if she would take me out onto the hospital’s verandah in order to bask in the late afternoon sun.

  She looked startled by the suggestion. “I think, sir, that you could manage it by yourself,” she replied eventually.

  I shrugged my unwounded shoulder sadly. “I have tried to walk about the wards, but met with little success. I believe that my injured leg still requires more nursing before it is ready for such a journey.”

  Her brows furrowed in thought. “Then I will ask one of the orderlies to push you out there in one of the wheeled-chairs.” She began to rise to in order to carry out this plan.

  I impetuously reached out a hand and laid it gently upon her dainty white wrist. Something about my recent brush with death made me feel like I needed to live my life more boldly. “Ah, but I would greatly prefer if you would escort me yourself.”

  She looked down at my hand and considered this. “I do not believe that this would be a wise idea, sir. I will call an orderly.”

  I unhappily watched her rise and walk away. Later, as I sat in my chair upon the verandah, I gloomily pondered my situation as the sun settled over the arid valley. I remained in place for many hours, brusquely waving away orderlies who attempted to fetch me back to my bed. The night was clear and fine above me. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. This sterile vision seemed to be a foretelling of my future, which appeared rudderless and forlorn. Despite these dark thoughts, however, when I later returned to my bed I thought that the fresh air had done me some good, and I felt stronger for having made the excursion.

  You can imagine my surprise when, the following day, Miss Devere arrived at her usual time and offered to take me out onto the verandah herself. I cautiously inquired as to the alteration in her opinion. “I have carefully considered your suggestion, sir, and decided that you possess a sympathetic face and that there would likely be no harm in conversing with you.”

  “I am honored, Miss Devere,” said I, gravely. “It would give me no keener pleasure.”

  And so began a steady ritual. My leg grew progressively stronger and yet I hid this fact from all, so as to not disrupt the impetus for our nightly excursions upon the verandah. Much of the time we spent talking, where I learned that she was the niece and ward of her uncle, Major-General Sir Neville Devere, C.B., of the renowned Third Buffs. She had been orphaned at a young age, and her uncle’s wife had recently succumbed to the yellow fever, so the good man was at a loss of what to do with a high-spirited young lady. As there were no other close relatives in England, as she grew older, he found that could not simply leave her behind un-chaperoned, and he therefore decided to bring her out to live with him at the base-camp. Unfortunately, Violet’s determined nature inherently forbade her from sitting quietly at home all way gossiping with the wives or daughters of the other officers. And so, against the general’s better judgment, she persuaded him to allow her to volunteer her assistance in succoring the wounded at the base hospital.

  Although Violet had spent the majority of her life at her uncle’s estate in Essex, she had quickly adapted to life in the lands of the British Raj. One evening she even showed me the curious pet that she had acquired in Calcutta in order to keep away snakes from her uncle’s home. She leaned over to a fabric-lined shutter-topped basket that she had brought with her. I had briefly imagined that it might contain a bit of home-cooked food, as I was rapidly tiring of the food served by the hospital commissary, and my time spent talking of England with Violet had awakened a strong craving for some oysters and grouse. Therefore, I was much surprised when she instead brought forth a beautiful reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that I ever saw in an animal’s head.

  “What is it?” I exclaimed.

  “Ricky is a mongoose,” she laughingly explained.

  As she elaborated, my esteem for her only grew. She was a remarkable woman to brave both the dangers of life upon the frontier and the horrors of a base-camp hospital. I found myself pondering why she chose to spend so much of her precious time with a crippled surgeon of limited means such as myself. I marveled at her lustrous hair, which took on a wonderful golden glow in the slanting rays of the setting sun. On a keen impulse, I reached out my right arm and drew her to my side, where she came without a hint of demurral. And thus, as the cooler air of twilight descended upon us and the days passed into beautiful moonlit nights, our time together was filled less with pleasant talk and more with exquisite moments of silence.

  Unfortunately, this happy interlude was not destined to last. Just as I was growing stronger and returning to my prior robust health, I was struck down again, this time by one of the many foul fevers that are so prevalent in the Peshawar valley. As I battled the enteric fever, I had little time for thoughts of romance or my fellow comrades, though it was clear that this particular scourge had affected half of the companies in the area, flooding the poor hospital in which I lay prostrate from the paroxysms of intense cramping. As my hectic temperature rose to over a hundred and four degrees, I found myself growing too dizzy to even rise out of bed in order to evacuate the vileness from my innards in the privacy that a man prefers. I could barely keep in enough liquid to hold body and soul together. Although the doctors were too good to say it to my face, my medical knowledge had not deserted me in spite of my febrile state, and I knew that my life was despaired of. As a further cruel blow, during that time the Third Buffs completed their mission for the Afghan campaign and were mobilized back to England, to be replaced by the Royal Munsters. I was left without even a photograph of her to gaze upon, but was too weak to even give words to my dull despair over Violet’s precipitous departure.

  Eventually, however, the doctors found a supply of cooling medicine and my naturally vigorous constitution won out over the pestilential flux. As I began to recuperate, I was greatly surprised to be informed that I had a visitor, despite being on the very frontier of the Empire. For a brief moment I imagined that Violet had somehow managed to return to Peshawar, and I transferred myself into the wheeled chair as rapidly as my weakened state would allow. My heart thumped rapidly in my breast as the orderly wheeled me out to the verandah, but this agitated patter stopped abruptly when instead of Violet’s petite form, a short man with a frame of white hair confronted me. Two keen brown eyes peered out at me from under tufted white eyebrows, and he was heavily mustached. He was on the long side of fifty, but despite his advancing years, he retained a powerful stature, which lent him an aura of command. The crown above two stars upon his scarlet coat with white facings proclaimed him a Colonel.

  “By Jove, Doctor, you look like a man in need of a side of roast,” said the man frankly.

  My brain was clearly still recovering from its recent bout, as it took me many a long moment before I finally recognized him. “Colonel Hayter! What brings you to Peshawar?” I cried. I was singularly pleased to see that fine old solider in front of me.

  “The Berkshires were passing through and I thought I would check to make sure that none of our men were languishing at the base hospital. Imagine my s
urprise when they told me that you were still here. Why on earth should an old campaigner such as you not have recovered from those Jezail bullets by now?”

  His words brought a spasm of pain to my first wound, and I half-consciously rubbed my left shoulder, which I to this day continue to hold in a stiff and unnatural manner. “The Jezails have little to trumpet, Colonel. It is this damned enteric fever.”

  Edward Hayter snorted in disgust. “Ah, I suspected as much. It’s clear as day that you will never recover in these pestilential airs.” He turned and gazed out over the valley, every aspect of its flora and dwellings still exotically foreign to my English eyes. “However, I still recall when you plucked that bullet out of my leg and sewed me together so well that I was back on the march within a week. I was not able to show my gratitude at that time, but the moment has come for me to repay my debts. I have arranged for you to recover in more healthy climes. Not a day longer should be lost. Tomorrow morning, you will be transported via dâk gharrie to the port at Karachi, where the troopship Serapis will convey you to the Cape. I hope that the sea airs will effect the healing these mountain airs were incapable of.”

  “I am astounded by this, Colonel, and surely unworthy.”

  “Pshaw, Doctor,” he answered warmly, turning back to me. “You are a good man and it has been a great privilege to have served with you, for no matter how short a time. I confess that we hate to lose you. But the Queen’s Rules are clear. Two bullets are enough for one man. The medical board has ruled that you have done your duty and you will be most honorably invalided out of the army. You will have nine months of half-pay, during which time you can regain your health before taking up a new position.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Hayter,” said I with emotion.

  “I’m not finished, Doctor,” said the Colonel. “Since your handiwork was so effective, I have no further use of this Penang-lawyer that I picked up during my time in Malaysia, and then decorated while at Benares. May it serve you well in your recovery.” He handed me a fine, thick wooden walking stick, its iron ferule only slightly worn. It had a large lead-weighted irregular bulbous head, intricately inlaid with what appeared to be gold filigree-work.

  I was overwhelmed by his generosity. “You are too kind, Colonel. Surely you should keep it.”

  “On the contrary, Doctor. My little collection of Eastern weapons is complete enough without that stick. And I do not plan to be shot again. I wish you good fortunes upon your return to London.”

  “And you, Colonel? Where are you headed?”

  “Wherever the Queen needs us, I expect. It is a good way to see the world that is for certain. But someday I hope to leave this dusty land, and return to the green embrace of mother England. If you ever find yourself in Surrey, my family’s manor is near Reigate. It would bring me great pleasure if you were to honor me with a visit.”

  “You may count upon it, Colonel.” And with that exchange, the Colonel shook my hand and parted from me. I sat there for a moment admiring my new prize. Clutching it in my gaunt right hand, I vowed that emaciation would not hold back my recovery any longer. Eventually, I signaled to an orderly to assist me in returning to my room, as I needed to pack up my small belongings in preparation for the following day’s departure.

  My best intentions, however, gave way under the strain of the wretched train to Karachi, which was perhaps better suited for transporting animals than recuperating men. By the time we boarded the HMS Serapis, I felt as if all of the progress I had made in my recovery had been lost. In addition, the strong south-west monsoon winds of the Arabian Sea brought with them terrible storms that eventually forced the ship to take shelter at the isle of Mauritius. During my outbound journey to Bombay upon the Crocodile, rather than rounding the Cape, we had taken the route that led through the glorious Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. There my iron stomach suffered not a twinge, while several of my fellow officers necessitated availing themselves of the convenience of the railings in order to purge themselves. However, I cannot claim any such success upon this tempestuous homeward voyage, and these excursions further weakened me to the point where my fevers relapsed and I could not even bring myself to disembark the ship and sample the pleasures of that lush tropical colony.

  Indeed, I have few memories of the trip around the Cape of Good Hope, and no recollection of how I made my way off of the ship. However, I believe it was more of a febrile delirium than anything else, as I do not recall any grey mist swirling before my eyes, and have never fainted in my life. Thus, my first impression of Cape Town was that of a smiling vaguely- familiar face. This belonged to a man about my age of eight and twenty years. He was of a medium height, flaxen-haired and handsome, with steady green eyes. He was clean-shaven, and his mouth had a trace of sensitivity to it. He wore the familiar uniform of an Army doctor.

  “By the Lord Harry! You look like you could use a doctor! You are as thin as a lash, and as brown as a nut.”

  I stared at him in a state of abject confusion, unable to find the words with which to respond to this strange greeting.

  “Good morning, old chap!” the man continued with great cheer. “It’s wonderful to see you again in this far away land.”

  “Where am I?” said I, groggily.

  “The Military Hospital, Wynberg, Cape Town, of course.”

  After a significant amount of conscious effort, I finally placed the man. “Jackson? Reginald Jackson, is that you?”

  “Hah!” he chuckled heartily. “I knew it! Nothing sets Hamish back for long. What’s a bit of enteric fever to a Netley man?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, after you shipped off with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, it was my turn. Unfortunately for me, it was then that they discovered the small trifle that I had neglected to inform them upon my completion at the University of London…”

  “You have flat feet!” I suddenly exclaimed.

  The look of astonishment upon his face told all. “How could you possibly know that, old chap?”

  I paused for a moment before I could answer him. “It simply came to me. I recalled the many off-hours that we spent playing cricket. You always preferred to be the bowler, but were never particularly accurate at hitting the wicket. This eventually led me to wonder then why you preferred to bowl. Clearly, it was not because you were the best bowler. Thus, it must have been due to a deficiency as a batsman. And yet, you had a strong arm, and could strike the bowl well. Thus, the problem must have been with your running across the pitch. I then recalled that you had a particular form of running, in which you pronated your feet, rolling your ankles inward and distributing the weight in your foot medially. That led me to conclude that you did this as a natural way to absorb the shock and stress caused by your lack of arches.”

  “Well, it’s a fine piece of reasoning if I don’t say so myself! And it’s spot on too. Once the sword-holders realized my deficiency, they almost drummed me out of the ranks. But eventually cooler heads prevailed, and the medical board realized that while I may never be a regimental surgeon like you, I could nonetheless still be put to good use in one of these rehabilitation hospitals.”

  “How has it been?” I inquired politely.

  “Well, it is certainly different than treating your average London lady!” Jackson laughed heartily. “There is no dropsy or apoplexy here!”

  I shifted in my bed, and noted that I felt much restored. I mentioned this to my friend.

  “Ah, yes,” he replied. “I gave you several doses of a paregoric while you were out, and it must be taking its effect.”

  “That is wonderful. I do not know how to thank you.”

  “No need, no need,” he shrugged modestly. “Do you think that I have forgotten the assistance you gave me during our second year at university? In fact,” his face brightened, “I am going to do you a turn better. You see we have had a terrible outbreak of erysipelas in the last few days, and have far too many men confined for you to stay here.”

  I
frowned at this unhappy news. “I believe the Serapis was continuing on to Portsmouth.”

  Jackson shook his head gravely. “The Serapis has sailed on without you, I’m afraid. Furthermore, where would you go? Did you think that I forgot that you have no kith or kin in England? You would gravitate to London, and that is no place for a man to recuperate. There is far too much excitement on the streets there. You might fall in with dangerous sorts.”

  I was taken aback by his remonstrance and poor opinion of my character, and I have never been one who could easily hide his emotions.

  Jackson laughed again when he saw my stricken face. “I jest, Hamish! But I am serious that I think you would recuperate better in a temperate clime. Fortunately for you, the Malabar is leaving in three days for Bermuda. I think you will enjoy it there.”

  “Bermuda!” I exclaimed happily. “My brother Henry is stationed there!”

  “What a propitious coincidence! If you jot down a note to him of your impending arrival, I will ensure that it makes it onto tonight’s mail-boat.” He took a J pen from his chest pocket and ripped a leaf from his notebook, and then handed them to me.